


No love like a mother's love - no selfishness, either

by Hypatia_S



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Pairings are not clearly stated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:29:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_S/pseuds/Hypatia_S
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looked so much like his father, had all the inherently good things his father had. But, in some aspects - the ones that make you <i>weak</i> and <i>vulnerable</i> and marked you as <i>prey</i> - he was too much like you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No love like a mother's love - no selfishness, either

**Author's Note:**

> Please take note of the warnings: there is referenced child and partner abuse, as well as substance abuse.  
> The descriptions are not graphic, but they may be enough to trigger someone. 
> 
> On the other hand, I also apologize for not being British (nor having any variant of English as a mother tongue), and all mistakes.

**i.**

They do say that ‘like father, like son’, and the first time you saw him, perfectly pressed suit and handsome face and the way he moved and talked and spoke - you realized it was true: Eggsy, your little Gareth, never resembled Lee more.

He looked so much like his father, had all the inherently good things his father had. But, in some aspects - the ones that make you _weak_ and _vulnerable_ and marked you as _prey_ \- he was too much like you.

**ii.**

“I would have liked to take Daisy to the park.” Your Eggsy whispers to no one - but you know they are listening. His glasses, those thick framed glasses you loathe, rest on the small table next to where he is writing down something in his tablet, laid back on the decadent armchair that is his only concession to his own wants in this whole house. Your Eggsy looks like a male model, slouched and debonair and effortlessly elegant - he takes after his father in some aspects-, his jacket hung on the valet, and shoes resting neatly inside their original boxes at its foot. His ridiculously affectionate dog is practically purring as his fingers scratch behind his ears distractedly. He looks like a magazine picture, but he’s real and yours, and something in your chest aches and burns when you allow yourself to believe you have had anything to do with his creation and development. But you have not, and you know you’re lagging behind on Daisy, despite the comfortable living you enjoy now, thanks to Eggsy. 

It’s Eggsy who looks up recipes for equilibrated diet for children, and who disinfects his shoes as soon as he gets home to ensure that Daisy can crawl and play around without entering into contact with anything from the streets, and who taught her basic signs in sign language so that she could express herself before she could properly talk because he has read it is supposed to enhance their development and stimulate intelligence. It’s Eggsy who wakes up at night and rocks her back to sleep, and it’s Eggsy whom she cries for when she’s sick.

“No - it would be... No, I understand. Yes, I will be there.” Disappointment laces his voice, but he doesn’t fight on this.

You know this is only the first step: you cave once, because once it’s not that important. And then again, because really, it doesn’t matter much. Then you realize that your wants and needs have no longer any weight, and are not even considered anymore, and you don’t even feel rage or irritation or despair or shame. It’s just the way it is.

You say nothing, because you’re selfish, and this job is what keeps the wonderful house and Daisy’s posh nursery, the savings you are storing at the bank with Eggsy’s calculated finances, the whole thing. Just once, you’ll allow this. Besides, it’s a job - and his boss is a gentleman, not Dean. Not like Dean, you hope - for Eggsy and your own sake.

**iii.**

Your Eggsy was fourteen when he caught you having sex for the first time, after he came back from gymnastic training. He caught you and Dean alone - the second time you were not so lucky, and Tim was there as well, a silent voyeur in a corner - but it was enough.

You remember your shame, and his embarrassment, and you remember about the screams that came afterwards (and Eggsy always gave as good as he got, verbally) and the bruise Dean put on his face and the dark imprint of his fist in his stomach. Dean had always been careful to hit where it didn’t show, before that time. After that, he didn’t care as much - although he still took care of not hitting Eggsy where anyone would notice. If he slipped enough to hit on the face - then you knew it was bad.

**iv.**

The thing about posh blokes, even that thrice-damned gentleman Eggsy goes on and on about, is: in the end, and in all the things that truly matter, they are the same scum as the poor ones, and selfishness tints everything they do and act.

The thing about posh blokes, and what makes it worse, is that they can gift-wrap it in manners, in apparent kindness, in money and a house, and pretty words and bespoke suits and dainty little gifts for Daisy.

The thing about posh blokes is that they may not use their fists or cocks to subjugate - although they often do - but this fact only makes it easier to deceive yourself into believing it is for your own good.

**v.**

Harry, or Arthur, or that girl, Roxy - they come and go and are frequent visitors, particularly when Eggsy is gone in a long-term _‘trip’_.

You invite them all when they visit, and they are nice, considerate even, acting kindly in that condescending way posh people have. Clear as day, they all come from old money, privileged from birth.

Roxy, for one, cannot quite hide her disdain for the dark roots in your home-dyed hair, or the low neckline of your sweater, or the leopard print of your favourite shirt. But you look at her, and find her severely lacking: she is more amused by JB than by Daisy, and you think that is very telling.

The bald one with the ridiculous nickname does not bother with manners with you anymore, not since that time when you carelessly mentioned the bruises on Eggsy’s arms or face. He told you then, point blank and harsh and crude, that you allowed his stepfather to beat him until he was capable of withstanding high levels of pain, and to _get the fuck off that high horse, ma’am, before you fall off_. You don’t like him, but he’s the better of that bunch, in your opinion. He might be posh and privileged, but he's the most down to earth. His other saving grace is how much he dotes on Daisy, becoming this big soft-eyed teddy bear of a man whenever she’s around, agreeing to play with her and doing so unashamedly. It is obvious that his visits, pre-arranged by Eggsy as they might be, are not an unwelcome obligation - the delight on his face when Daisy clutches his neck with strong little arms cannot be faked.

And Hart - that unmitigated bastard who stole your husband from you, and has now stolen your son - doesn’t even bother hiding his low opinion of you whenever Eggsy is not in the room. What does he know about hunger or the need to escape reality? He drinks often and regularly, too, even if he pretties it up with fancy labels stamped on expensive bottles.

And you have seen how he looks at your son - like he is property, like your son is not yours, but rather his own achievement, like he’s entitled to all that is good in Eggsy. Like you should be grateful that he’s ‘saved’ your son and you from your previous life. Like he knows everything that went down in that tiny flat. Like he knows how it was, for you and for Eggsy and for Dean, those fifteen years you spent living together, and the ones before Dean, when you were desperate for affection and for something to tether you to this life, when there was a string of men that all left you because you had a son back at home, and they didn’t want the responsibility. How Dean was kind to Eggsy. At the beginning. 

You hate Hart, because he is wrong.

He knows nothing of living subjugated and in terror. And, without that, he will never fully understand Eggsy.

**vi.**

Eggsy screams like he is being tortured, and it wakes you up from your sleep - and Daisy as well.

When you open his door, barefoot and barely clad in an old and frankly frayed shirt, feeling the cold acutely as all windows are open in the middle of winter, you find him shaking in a corner, curled into a tiny ball, crying in desperate sobs he can’t quite contain.

“Eggsy, dear?” You ask, and he is unresponsive. You approach him, switching on the lights - and now you can see: the scar on his bicep, still pink, and the black bruises on his back that extend around his ribs.

Long ago, Dean _cured_ your boy of the need to cry, and when he woke up from nightmares, it was always with soft whimpers and choked moans that were barely audible. You remember that time, the one where Dean broke his arm and wrenched his knee with a bad fall against the table, Eggsy did not cry when they told him he’d never be Olympic material again if it didn’t heal well.

You don’t want to know if these night terrors are merely nightmares or memories. There’s plenty to choose from.

He doesn’t accept your touch, but he does hug Daisy to his naked chest and kisses her forehead when you bring her over, and he curls around her, protective even now, and then - his back is a mess - not even Dean’s belt left those kind of marks - and you retreat because if you can’t see the bruises, you can trick yourself into forgetting they exist.

Expensive alcohol tastes as bitter going down as the cheap stuff does. It even leaves the same aftertaste of hopelessness and misery.

**vii.**

The nightmares do not go away, but he learns to control himself so that he doesn’t wake up Daisy anymore. You do - but it is because you are expecting it, anticipating. They are always more frequent after he spends what he calls a _few days away, just a work trip, really, mum_.

“I love you.” You tell him one morning, when his ribs are smarting enough for you to notice, a tiny cut on his forehead, dark shadows under his eyes and a bruised dots on his neck that are no love bites, but traces of a handprint. His lower lip still bleeds whenever he smiles too widely.

He looks at you, startled, confused, surprised, and you wonder: when was the last time you told him you loved him? You can’t remember. You do, though, love him. You don't love him properly like you should, but you do care for him.

“I love you too, mom.” He tells you, and his voice trembles. He looks like a child, this boy of yours, all grown up and strong, with wide shoulders and an easy smile that hides all sins.

Never his own sins, tough. He has enough with the ones from the people who are supposed to care for him.

**viii.**

He’s got a broken leg, and you want to kill those bastards. Eggsy reads the murderous intent on your face - like he knows that this - this is the point you cannot withstand this situation anymore. “I slipped on the floor.” Eggsy explains, with that self-deprecating smirk he learnt by the time he was twelve. 

“Of course.” You acknowledge blandly, feeling old, and bitter, and hearing yourself echoed in his words. It could happen, of course. No one is exempt of a moment of clumsiness or slipping on wet stairs. But you doubt it: your son has always been graceful, even in his teenage years, and gymnastics and parkour and marine training sealed it. He’s always been in perfect control of his body.

But the moment for rage has passed by you. Eggsy is still talking, voice far too chipper, and pointing at his leg like it is something amazing. JB is nosing his good leg, and Eggsy obediently pets his head. 

“It’s an exoskeleton, called Cortex, not a cast: less bulky, see? And I can shower with it.” You study the strange cast, which resembles some kind of white honeycomb, a fashion accessory more than anything medical. “It’s more expensive, but so nice, customized for my leg, and more hygienic. And light.”

You wonder how much it cost: it doesn’t look like any hospital or public facility would go putting these things on, and you conclude that they must have taken him to a private, highly expensive clinic; and you wonder what else did they treat at that private, highly expensive clinic that your son isn’t telling you about.

Daisy pets it quietly, but you take her curious hands away, afraid she’ll poke something she shouldn’t and cause him pain.

**ix.**

Daisy calls him ‘Papa’ once, back from the school where she’s learning to count to twenty in three different languages. Eggsy is frozen in movement, JB fussy in his arms, and you think: four years old, and she can read and understand the world better than you could ever do. Because she’s right, and only now you realize this.

“He is the only father you will ever know.” You tell her, crouching to her level. “The only parent who has never looked out for anyone else but for you.” Because you’re selfish, and once you took a knife to her, and you never minded her, drowning yourself in alcohol and drugs - because Eggsy was there to care instead.

Fathers are those who care for you and provide for you and love you over themselves. Fathers are those who offer protection and kind arms and soothe your fears at night. Fathers are those who ensure you grow up to be a good person, and start doing so by example.

Eggsy makes a choked sound behind you, but you don’t turn to face him. He’s smart enough to listen what you are not telling Daisy out loud.

Daisy sleeps in Eggsy’s bed that night again – Eggsy spoils her ruthlessly in this aspect, showering her with affection and kisses Daisy only accepts this gracefully from him – and then he leaves for Milan.

At the front door, Daisy pecks his cheek noisily, and then he pecks yours equally noisily, and finally he messes JB's ears, and the black taxi departs. While it turns the corner, you reflect on last night. She called him ‘Papa’ in front of you, and you didn’t correct her. You encouraged her, instead.

You think you ought to feel shame; adding even more to the weight on Eggsy’s shoulders, shoving your responsibility onto him, ensuring he's tied down to reality and doesn't get swallowed by the world of those blokes he loves so much. You don’t.

**x.**

Eggsy has something _broken_ inside, irreparably so. It started the first time you took up a bottle, and racked further when Dean came and forced him to start running drugs and stealing cars. It continued when you made him quit the gymnastic team when he started talking about leaving home for training and you told him you couldn’t pay for his schooling anymore, when he enrolled in the marines and you made him quit after getting pregnant, and when Dean bashed his face in. One of the times Dean bashed his head in. All of the times Dean bashed his head in.

It was broken forever when he came into the Black Prince clad in an expensive, bespoke suit that fit him like a glove and flattered all the elegant, powerful lines of his body.

Your Eggsy was always a very good liar. After all, no one cares for street trash - and less to see beyond his pretty, pretty smile.

Daisy and you soothe the ache - and you think that without the both of you, he would not bother - it is clear as the regret in his eyes and the misery in his slumped shoulders.

**xi.**

“There, mom. You look right fit, now.” Eggsy tells you. This is probably more expensive than your wedding dress, the single one because you never married Dean. The silk feels fine and cool, and when you look at the mirror, the fine clothes and the new hairdo Eggsy insisted upon, jointly with the makeup he took you to a salon to apply, make you think you are not that woman in the mirror. She looks elegant and refined - things you know you are not, but Eggsy is slowly becoming.

You accept the gift because his eyes are shining with pride, and his smile is beaming, and when he pays, shadows of bruised rings, half-burns, can be spied around his wrists. They’re fading, now.

You, very carefully, ignore them, and you accept his proposition to have lunch out. Daisy babbles her approval from her perch on Eggsy’s arms.

You think you may be happy, here and now.

**xii.**

It’s strange how the tables have turned, you realize one day, staring at your son. He was quite... prudish, for lack of a better term. He did not follow women - nor men - around, and if he has had a girlfriend - or a boyfriend - you never knew about it. He saw you having sex - but you’ve never caught him in the act of jerking himself off or any indication that he was a sexual being.

Dean’s… associates may yap about him being a rent boy, but the truth is: a couple of them are just resentful that Eggsy refused them at every turn.

You wonder if it wouldn’t have been better, if he’d had more experience.

**xiii.**

Eggsy falls ill, once, ill enough that the coughs and the fever urge you to call an ambulance, and when you later arrive at the hospital, with Daisy half-asleep in your arms - and she’s getting heavy enough that you cannot carry her for long -, the three stooges - Hart, the bald one whose name you’ve never bothered to learn, and Roxy - are already there. 

“JB?”

“At home.” You answer. “How’s Eggsy?”

“They don’t know what it is they have.” Hart replies in a bland tone. “But soon, _they will_. Merlin, I’m leaving now. I’ll call you later.” And with an intense look at the girl and the bald one with the ridiculous nickname - Merlin, of all things -, he leaves the hospital.

With your fucking boy hospitalized and _dying_ right there. 

You want to bash his head in and scream - what, looking for a new rent boy now that your son cannot satisfy his needs? - but you’re distracted by Roxy offering to help with Daisy - and even if she’s an entitled daddy’s girl and no good with children, wouldn’t it be better if your Eggsy had fallen in love with her?

And finally the medical personnel come by, brought there by Merlin, who is apparently able to inspire fear in anyone, if their vaguely terrified expressions are anything to go by. The doctors have no idea, and they continue having _no idea_ for 24 hours more while your son deteriorates and dies painfully and slowly in a cold and sad hospital room without even his lover for company. You have not slept for a second, and you wish for the sweet oblivion of alcohol now - but Eggsy is _dying_ , and you want to be stone-cold sober when it happens, so you can remember the second your life went to hell, and your Eggsy - fuck, your little boy, with the huge eyes and the bright smile, and the kindness in every gesture - leaves this sad, traitorous world. 

Merlin - you still don’t know his real name, because even Roxy calls him that - receives a call, and not fifteen minutes later another friend of Eggsy’s comes by - this time, the older man who works at the fitting rooms at the shop, Porter is his name - and he brings a flask of something to the bald one, who disappears to drink it. If it’s scotch, you want a swig after…. _After_.

“It’s a miracle.” They tell you, two hours later. “We detected something anomalous in his blood work, but it’s disappeared now without trace, and your son is on the road to recovery, surprisingly enough.”

You cry then, hysterical and unhinged, and so does Roxy and even the bald one gets this intense look - and it’s _relief_. 

Hart only appears back when he’s out of danger and barely four hours away from being discharged. He looks slightly dishevelled - has nail imprints on his left hand - and you wonder how many boys he fucked while yours laid in that room. At least one must have been feisty. You wished he had scratched his eyes out as well.

**xiv.**

It’s not always bruises he bring home.

Mostly, it’s nightmares and that look of hopelessness you loathe so much.

But your boy has never been afforded the luxury to be anything other than scrappy and tough, and he just doesn't roll over and take it - he gets back up and picks him up and plasters a fake smile.

You don’t want to know what it is that has been done to him one day when he collapses, catatonic and unresponsive, on his bed, and stares at the ceiling. Tears go past his eyes, wetting the hair over his ears, but he seems not to notice it - he doesn’t seem aware that he is crying. You try to wake him up, to make him react, but not even the weight of his sister on his chest is enough to pull him back.

You don’t want to know what the fuck that posh bloke of his did to him. You force yourself to carry on, just like you carried on that time Dean took a knife - an axe, almost - to his face and body, that day before Eggsy escaped and did not come back for months. You carried on, and remained with Dean, with Daisy, in that same house where Dean broke your boy’s arm and you destroyed his dreams of Olympics, of university, of a career in the marines. 

At least this time, you tell yourself, at least two out of the three of your little family are better off. And Eggsy is getting his education, too, reading and learning and talking posher and more proper every day. This time, it is better. Even for Eggsy.

Even for your Eggsy, who lays on a bed, unresponsive and traumatized.

**xv.**

Sometimes, even _you_ can’t lie to yourself about your son, and you need an _outlet_.

**xvi.**

“Like mother, like son.” You whisper to him, cradling his face - his beautiful, beautiful face, with no trace of the yellowish imprint of the bruise on his jaw that has finally faded. His nose wrinkles, and you are sure he can sell the alcohol in your breath and see the hint of cocaine in your nose – nothing much gets past your Eggsy -, and despair briefly fills his eyes, his beautiful eyes, and he is still your little boy, far more intelligent than anyone you’ve ever met, kind and loyal and the best thing you have ever done in your life.

“What do you mean, mom?” He asks you, and his hands lift you from the floor, careful and gentle - he is his father’s son in this, the kindness and affection in his touch that you have never received except from them both.

“Like mother, like son.” You repeat, and caress his face again, and press a drunk, sloppy kiss on his forehead, like a benediction when it is actually a curse - and he frowns at you. You very, very rarely offer physical affection. It reminds you of Dean, when it’s a male, even Eggsy, and you hate yourself for it. “We were not made for gentle, kind love, I think, Eggsy.”

Eggsy stares at you like he doesn’t understand - and he doesn’t, because his bruises don’t come from fists - they do, but he’s grown up with the imprint of fists on his ribs, that is not what bothers you – it’s the deeper wounds he carries don’t come from fists, and no, your little boy never knew love, never knew care, never knew respect, true respect - how can he recognize that this - this that he is offered - is not love as it should be?

You think Daisy will be better off than your Eggsy, because you didn’t love your Eggsy, not like you should have, and he grew unloved and uncared for, unattended, but he will take care – is already taking care - of your Daisy, and see to it that she isn’t as fucked – and fucked up - as both of you are.

“You will love Daisy, tough, won’t you?” Even in this you’re selfish. He has been looking after Daisy since she was born - even those nine months he wasn’t there - well, it was a wonder you managed as well as you did - and he will do again, because your little boy knows no better. He doesn’t conceive the fact that he could fly alone, and leave you behind, and make a life for himself without the weight that you and Daisy represent.

“Of course I will, mom. Daisy will never lack of anything.” It is obvious, in his voice, that the thought of not taking care of Daisy has never entered his head. You stare at him, and his handsome face, and his wonderful quick mind and stupidly noble heart, and the world of possibilities at his feet, and you know you are dragging him down, just like that man is dragging him down, and those possibilities will wither until they exist no longer. 

“You did. You did, and you do, and you will.” You confess to him, drunk and drugged and tired, not even knowing what you’re trying to tell him, and then you don’t remember anything more.

You wake up in your bed, though. Someone has taken care to wash your hair and bathe you and change you into pyjamas and get you into bed, to leave a pitcher of water by your bedside. 

Eggsy did always have better mothering instincts than you did.

**xvii.**

“Good evening.” You greet him when he arrives like he owns the place, Eggsy’s vigilant posh bloke, and this time you’re sober. You won’t be, not for long, but for now, you are. You are dressed in your best outfit - the one that Eggsy chose for you, and you have tried to style your hair and apply your makeup just like they did at the salon. 

You look _respectable_. 

His surprise - unhidden - at your appearance does not even sting - you are very aware of your vices.

“My son is an amazing man.” You tell him before he can even reply to your greeting. “My Eggsy is handsome, and intelligent, and capable of the kind of selfless love neither you nor I are capable of _understanding_.”

He puts his coat in the rack, with the umbrella, and sits in front of you. “He is.” He says, a world of knowledge on his words, like he knows him better than you. He doesn’t, because he may know Eggsy - but not the Eggsy you saw grow up.

“So you understand: I get that you like him well enough - because it’s impossible not to.” He makes a sound of protest, but you glare at him, wanting to get everything out, and not wanting interruptions. “And I get that you wanted to repay his father - some honour bullshit not even you fully believe.” His face darkens now, dangerous and predatory, making you acknowledge how a man like this can dominate someone as strong and as strong headed as Eggsy. “And I get that you want to fuck him - because he is beautiful and you don’t even have to lean that way to know it.”

Harry Hart pauses then, aggression leaving his frame momentarily, as if stunned by your bluntness, elegantly raising an eyebrow, but does not deny it. Why should he? They all know where they stand, and where Eggsy stands with each of them. Fucking Eggsy does not give him any right to intrude in your family, because when his lust for Eggsy passes, or he finds another, less broken boy to take home - they three will still be there, and he will not. 

“And I hope you understand your son is a grown man, fully capable of making informed decisions on whom he wants a relationship with?”

“And I hope you understand that my Eggsy grew knowing no love.” You tell him.

“If that is that the case, while I take my share of the responsibility, regarding his father, and allow me to be blunt, you were the one that did not offer him a proper home to grow in.”

“Exactly.” You say, unflinching, because you knew was going to come - and although it slices deep, deep enough to wound you, but you can continue. You have memorized these words already, so many times you practiced this conversation, and you made sure to eliminate all traces of a low-class accent as you could. You know how it is, with these posh men. “I ruined my son’s life. And I know he sees you as saviour.”

He looks moderately pleased at that - and you hate it.

“You’re wrong - now, there is something broken inside of him, and that? That is all on you. My boy loves you - and will never stray - and you know why? He knows nothing else. You ensured that.”

“You said it yourself: you ruined him - I gave him a chance.”

“And ensured he owed you a debt he could never pay back. That is not love, it’s possession, but my Eggsy knows nothing about love.”

He sits there, mulling it over. “But he is capable of it.” He says.

“Yes - he is. All that violence and pain and suffering made him kind - made him loving, when it ought to be the opposite.” Hart - the bastard who killed your husband and then annihilated what innocence remained in Eggsy - doesn’t even twitch. “And if you get tired of him…” Here he moves forward, like he wants to interrupt, but you don’t allow him to. “And _when_ you get tired of him, and you will, when another pretty thing comes by, he will still love you.” 

“I don’t think you fully understand our relationship.” He starts, posh accent and hard eyes and none of that 'gentleman' behaviour in sight. 

“Don’t have to: my boy is very handsome, and he has a new flat in a posh part of London, despite being officially only a tailor assistant, a job which he obtained after meeting you and that other ‘older gentleman friend’, Merlin or whatever, and comes home bruised and aching and sometimes with an empty look in his eyes that plainly speaks of rougher _play_. I don’t need to understand anything more.” You don’t want to know, and you take pains not to know, but the truth is clear. Your boy grew up with you and Dean and his goons, it is a miracle that he’s landed this, and kept it for so long, four years now if not more. But it’s not only money. It’s _love_ , and this is the first time he’s been in love, and, of course, it had to be for a bastard - or bastards, you are not quite sure yet - who delights in causing him pain. “I am only telling you this so that, if you care anything at all, you don’t break him the way you broke me when you told me my Lee was dead.”

He looks thunderous, but then the door opens with a bang. “Papa!” Daisy screeches, after peeking through the door and spying a dark coat. “Oh! Mr. Hart!” She sounds disappointed, but then she presses a kiss to his cheek and offers a blinding smile, and of course Harry relaxes around her. He does dote on her like a fond uncle, that you can admit. Both he and Merlin lose all composure when Daisy cries, and smile when she is happy, and spoil her as much as you allow them to. “When is Eggsy coming back?”

“A week. I’m sorry, precious.” You remember the first time he faced Daisy - and how Eggsy had to plop the child on his arms to get him to properly meet her, and the comical look in his face, like she was a bomb about to go off.

When Daisy leaves to wash her hands, he arches an eyebrow, inquisitive and accusing. “Papa?” Daisy never grew out of it, even if she understands that Eggsy is her brother, not her father. Not biologically.

“He is more her father than I am her mother.” You state, bitterness lacing your tongue, but you’ve got no one to blame but yourself. It was easier with Dean, sometimes. You tried, but if you didn’t succeed, it was not your fault at all, but _his_. “Now, please, leave. Tell Eggsy you’ve seen us, and we’re alright.”

“I… you have the wrong impression of me.” You slap his fancy umbrella and his fancier coat in his hands, roughly, and he doesn't wince even if the umbrella handle did hit a little bit too strongly.

“Believe me; even if you aren’t fucking my boy, my impression of you still cannot go lower.” You tell him, tired of this conversation in which all important points have already been said, and angry, _rationally_ angry, on Eggsy's behalf and yours and the fucking world, and close the door on his damned face.

“Dear? Are you washing your hands? Mommy’s coming.” You call up, and Daisy giggles. Of course she is not.

**xviii.**

You are no mother - too selfish for that - but you still love your children with whatever is left of your heart.


End file.
